The mediation room on the forty-second floor of the World Trade Center was a masterpiece of corporate intimidation. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls offered a dizzying, omnipotent view of the Manhattan skyline, while the massive slab of cold gray marble serving as the conference table seemed designed to

The digital clock on Vivian’s temporary desk read 1:14 AM.

The penthouse suite she had rented overlooking Central Park was dead silent, save for the rhythmic tapping of her Montblanc pen against the mahogany surface. Spread before her under the sharp glow of a brass reading lamp was a forty-page c

The flashes of the paparazzi's cameras were blinding, a relentless strobe light storm that turned the red carpet into a battlefield.

Vivian stood at the edge of the velvet ropes outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. This was the epicenter of